The Letters That Started it All
by Mikee
Summary: Harry is (once again) rescued. Sorry folks. This is a complete work, & stands alone. Probably no sequels. Warning: Mention of suicide attempt and Soft-Slash. Please be gentle. This is one of the first fictions I have ever written, Potter or otherwise.


General Disclaimer regarding any Harry Potter characters found within my writing 

All fiction or poems within this site are the product of my own mind (muddled though it may be). The characters are, sadly, not mine. They belong to J. K. Rowling. I just play with them, and bend them to my will occasionally. Occasionally they see fit to take over the story, and then I am their tool. 

The Letters That Started it All 

by: Mikee  
Dear Professor,  
  
So well I remember your first day speech. You said you could teach us to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. Do you not fear the skills you teach will some day be turned against you? Do you not fear one of your charges will slip you your famous powdered root of asphodel and wormwood potion so as to have his way with you? Do not think these did not occur to me? It was only fear that stopped me. Fear I'd hurt you.  
  
Do you not see the desire in the eyes of those who would make you theirs? Do you not know the power of your voice, the allure of your eyes? Do you not recognize the sensuous affect of the lift of your eyebrow, the almost come-hither tilt of your head, enticements designed to do what, exactly? Are you not aware of the beguiling sheen of your hair and heady aroma of the faint musk that follows your every step, inducements for whom, exactly?   
  
You looked down your nose at us with distain. What was it you found so abhorrent? Was it our youth, our energy, our innocence? Was it mine? I was not so young, nor energetic. Nor was I so innocent.  
  
You spoke to us with a voice dripping with hate and loathing, verbal venom. What was it you hated? Did you hate our spirit, our vulnerability? Did you hate my spirit as I deign to respond to your sarcasm in kind? If it was my vulnerability, you had the power to assuage it.   
  
To what was your loathing directed? Was it directed at our reckless abandon, our insatiable capacity for fun and foolishness? If it was my abandon, you could have joined me. If it was my capacity for fun and foolishness, I could have taught you. I am sure once upon a time, in your youth, you possessed such frivolous traits. I could have helped you remember.  
  
What was it you were trying to poison? Was it my growing attachment to you? For if it was, that was the wrong tack. Your venom only drew me closer.  
  
Was the measured cadence of your speech a vocal potion intended to prevent you from voicing any comfort you could offer to one so wounded? You needn't have worried; I had enough words for both of us, and would gladly have shared them. I'd not have pushed for words to which you were unable to lend voice.  
  
I saw you glare down your nose at me every time you caught me watching you. Against what was that glare a fortress. Was it my desire? Was it desire you loath, for if it was then you also were glaring at yourself, for there was desire in your eyes smoldering behind the mask of, what… hate?  
  
You scanned us with eyes half-closed. What were you closing out? What was it you wished not to see? Was it the love in my eyes you were closing out? For if it was, I wouldn't have abandoned you. I would have pursued that which I knew was there, buried beneath your studied pose.  
  
Your mouth, lips alternating between sneering and seductively parting. What was it you both wanted and detested? Who was it you closed out? Who was it you wanted? I saw these directed at me more than anyone else. Were you biting back a kiss when you changed from parted lips to tightly pursed sneer? Was it my kiss you avoided? If it was, I'd have greeted that sneer with unrelenting caresses.   
  
You stood, at times, wand-straight with hands fisted, knuckles white with strain. What, or who, were you not holding? Was it me? I'd have kept you in my embrace until you trusted yourself to embrace me back.  
  
At times I saw you stand leaning against a portrait hole or a wall, arms tightly crossed at your chest. Who were you keeping out? Was it me? Were you afraid to trust your arms to release a hug? Were those embraces of yourself the only embraces you trust? I'd have given you time to trust me and my arms.  
  
So well I remember your first day speech, pointing out "our new celebrity". Was that jealousy, fear, envy, hate… a little of all of them? If so, why did you go out of your way several times a year, every year, to keep me alive? If you had asked, I'd have gladly given you my celebrity status. After all, all I ever wanted was to be just a boy, nothing more.  
  
If your precisely posed stance was to keep me at bay, and stave off any feelings of tenderness you may have harbored, why stay my hand repeatedly to insure 'The Boy who Lived' continued to live? Why intervene in my quest for release? Did you not realize I'd fallen in love with you? What game were you playing?   
  
Do you realize tomorrow when I leave, I leave for good? Do you know that when I leave, I leave not just you and the school, but pain of all stripe. When I leave, blame the Wizarding Word for burdens too big, placed on one too fragile. Blame me for weakness I could no longer fight. Blame my aunt and uncle for starving me, yes they starved me of food, but more than that, they left me starved for love. And damn-it… yes, blame yourself!  
  
Love, HP  
  
PS. My last paragraph just proves I was not as generous as everyone thought, was I.   
  
PPS. You used to call me "foolish boy". For a few years, at the beginning, there was almost tenderness in your voice when you called me that. I found it endearing. I know precisely when that tenderness was replaced by a viscous sarcasm. It was in my fourth year, the year I acknowledged, to myself, that I had fallen in love with you.   
  
Yes, I was a foolish boy. I had foolishly hoped for ten years that my aunt and uncle would, if not learn to love me; at least learn to accept me. I was a foolish boy for another four years as I hoped tenderness would return to your voice. But alas, that was not to be. Did my love for you scare you that much? Did I scare you so much that you had to physically push me out the doors?  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The train hadn't even left the station when the owl delivered that letter to the Professor. As was his habit, he read the last of the letter first. He was accustomed to receiving bad news that was mentioned in the last line or so of many a letter, with inane banter preceding the ink bullet buried almost as an afterthought just before the closing or immediately after as a post script. Had he started at the beginning of the letter he might have missed his chance.  
  
The first two things that caught his attention were "yes, blame yourself!" and "HP". His blood ran cold yet he felt feverish. The professor rushed to the fireplace and via the Floo network arrived at the train station momentarily. He had only minutes to spare. Apparating to the engine of the train he impressed upon the conductor to stall the departure and assist in locating the foolish boy.  
  
They found the boy in the men's restroom. He had slit both arms from wrists to elbows and had lost copious amounts of blood. The professor carried the boy and Flooed back to the hospital wing of the castle. He laid the boy on the first bed and called for Madam Pomfrey. Crossing to the hospital wing fireplace he summoned the headmaster.  
  
"Severus, son, what has happened?"  
  
"Albus," the professor said trying to choke back his rage, grief, fear, and sorrow, "the boy tried again."  
  
Albus appeared and conjured a chair for the younger wizard by the boy's bed, and left him to sit watch as Madam Pomfrey tried to bring the child back from the abyss.  
  
As Severus sat in the chair he remembered he still had the boy's letter. Taking it out he read in horrified disbelief. He knew the boy had had feelings, but never realized just what they were.  
  
Summoning parchment, quill and ink, Severus set out to answer the boy's letter.  
  
Dear Foolish Boy,  
  
He nearly tore the parchment he pressed so hard when writing "Foolish Boy." His quill carried his anger well.  
  
As words escape me at the present, and I don't know how else to reach you, I will attempt to respond to your letter. Expect this to be a long epistle.  
  
So too, I remember your first day of class.. You sat near the back of the potions lab between Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley. You watched in horrified awe as I made my entrance, and then you tried to write down every word I spoke. How did you feel then? Were you entranced? Were you afraid? By whom or what were you entranced that day? Of what or whom were you afraid that day? Surely it was not I. For we did not know each other then.  
  
As for your beginning questions; no, I have never before feared that any of the skills I teach, or taught, would be turned against me. I have never feared any of my charges would, as you put it, slip me my famous powdered root of asphodel and wormwood potion so as to have 'his' way with me. You have given me something about which to think. I suppose I should thank you for that, foolish boy.   
  
In response to your confession that it was through fear you'd hurt me that stopped you from administering said potion, for that I, again, am thankful. Fear, on occasion, can be a friend to both the fearful and fearsome.  
  
Your query asking if I did not see desire in the eyes of those who would 'make me theirs' can only be answered by telling you that at times I have seen 'things' in the eyes of students, but my better judgment advised always that it was gratitude, misplaced, for passing marks, or hatred.   
  
The power of my voice? Yes, of that I am well aware. It is a studied skill, one which I have nurtured, and enjoy employing to its fullest potential.   
  
Allure of my eyes? That is not something I have ever considered. I am blessed, or cursed depending upon the observer's point of view, with that which I drew from the gene pool, and over which I have no control.  
  
You ask if I recognize the sensuous affect of the lift of an eyebrow. Foolish boy, that movement to which you make reference may speak volumes, the context is up to the reader. Nothing, I assure you, was intended to be sensuous about an occasionally raised eyebrow. Indeed, more often than not it should be read as amused disbelief on my part for some action observed, or word spoken by another.   
  
As for what you term the 'come-hither tilt' of my head, that is merely another page in the eyebrow book, amused disbelief, and again, occasionally questioned observations, nothing more. No enticements designed for anyone on my part.  
  
The sheen of my hair? I've never heard it referred to thus. The more common reference is that I am a greasy git, especially my hair. Foolish boy, brewing potions as I have, for the better part of twenty years has proven a better hair conditioner than any marketed product could ever.   
  
Faint musk aroma… again potion brewing, nothing more, no inducements intended.  
  
Now, however, you hit on truth. Look down my nose with distain. Certainly. What is not to be disdainful of working with nothing but dunderheads.   
  
Abhorrent youth, energy, innocence? No, foolish boy, those are joys of growing up, and I'd not deny any child the opportunity to partake of any of the three, I just don't happen to relish being around them more than necessary.   
  
You said you were not so innocent. No, child, I know you were not. The greater part of your innocence was ripped from you before you were two-years-old. Any other innocence to which you may make reference is not any concern of mine.  
  
My voice dripping with hate and loathing, you called it 'verbal venom'. Five points to Gryffindor for the original phrase. Yes, I suppose you captured the essence of my speech when addressing dunderheads.   
  
Hate your spirit or vulnerability? No, foolish boy, those, too, are a part of growing up. I hate that all these things, youth, energy, innocence, spirit, and vulnerability interfere with learning skills that may save your life, and possibly the lives of others. While all those attributes clearly have their place, classrooms do not happen fall within that category.   
  
Assuage your vulnerability. Child, outside of the classroom, that was perhaps your biggest asset, your vulnerability.  
  
Reckless abandon, insatiable capacity for fun and foolishness? Again those are traits that interfere with learning, and as you were here to learn, I found them most loathsome. I was your professor, not your playmate. I had no place joining in any such frivolity, nor, I assure you, have I forgotten my long-ago childhood and the plague of such caprice. My time for that has passed, yours is waning.  
  
Ah, we return to my favorite, 'verbal venom'. When one is unable to touch (read strike) another, what better way than barbed banter, sharp sarcasm, and as you say 'verbal venom'. Use it to comfort one so wounded? Not in my position. Being your professor didn't stop me from trying to comfort you, you did. Your head-long rush for self-destruction left no room for comfort. More than that, though, was my position as a spy.   
  
You said at the beginning what stopped you from slipping me that potion was your fear of hurting me. Please do not insult yourself thinking you were the only one capable of harming me. Do remember, if you will, just for whom I was working. Recall now? Spy for Dumbledore against Voldemort? Does that ring any bells in that empty head of yours?  
  
Child, you read me correctly again. My glare is my fortress, it is my wall, my buttress against anyone getting too close, as well as insurance against me getting too close to another. I will award Gryffindor another five points for an accurate reading.   
  
As for hate smoldering behind my mask. If I were to be perfectly honest, no foolish boy. It was nothing short of caring. Caring I didn't know how to express without getting the person about whom I cared killed, or me killed.  
  
Yes, I scanned you children with half-closed eyes. The better to pick specific focal points I needed to burn onto my tired retinas.   
  
Love in your eyes? I didn't know what it was. After all, you must remember, I am the most feared and hated Potions Master. Child, you said it yourself more times than I care to count.  
  
My sneer is a trademark, and to be read as are the eyebrow lift and head tilt. Most often signaling, amused disbelief, or question.   
  
Seductive parting of my lips? I never noticed, but as you bring it to my attention. I imagine you again have earned your house five points. As your letter was well thought-out, and I expect honestly reflects your state of mind at the time of writing, I feel I owe you nothing less than honesty in return. Yes, I avoided kisses. Whose? None of your business. Sorry, foolish boy.  
  
Standing as you so aptly put it, 'wand-straight with hands fisted, knuckles white'. Did you ever stop to look beyond my stance to see what provoked that stance. Had you done so, most assuredly, you would have seen something, or someone, acting in rather an antagonistic manner. At no time did an embrace rebuked cross my mind as I assumed that stand.  
  
Standing while leaning against anything with my arms crossed was never a means of keeping anyone out of my arms, however, the last time I did indulge in an embrace was quite some time prior to your birth, and I have quite forgotten the feel or necessity of such maneuvers. Trust you? You didn't even trust yourself.   
  
I, too, remember pointing out our 'new celebrity', and for that I offer an apology. And shall deduct ten points from Slytherin. Not to make excuses, only to offer reasons, I had heard all the stories about 'The Boy Who Lived', and drew inaccurate conclusions. I had been led to believe you had been spoilt, pampered, and generally allowed to grow up as an insufferable brat not unlike another student who actually did enjoy that privilege, and who has since succeeded in his quest for release. Thinking of you as such was a grievous error of judgment on my part.  
  
Your offer of conferring upon me your status of 'celebrity' is unreasonable, I dare say. I did not seek, and have not since sought, celebrity, nor have I ever suffered celebrities well. I've no patience for them.   
  
Harry moaned and Severus jumped. He was beside the unconscious young man immediately, blotting his fevered forehead with a cool cloth, and holding a hand. Harry didn't awaken, but grew quite again. Severus returned to his letter:  
  
Now you broached a topic that really means something. Why did I keep you alive?  
  
Foolish boy…   
  
Severus' quill now wrote "Foolish boy" lightly, almost tenderly.  
  
…you were a child in pain, a child in need, a child in want. You were as I was at your age. I did for you that which no one did for me. Intervene in your quest for release? Those are words of someone who no longer knows his place in the world, of someone who too early had too much responsibility. Those words are a cry for help too late sought.  
  
My precisely posed stance as you put it was merely the aristocratic posture I had drilled into me by my parents, designed to stave off nothing more than a bad back.   
  
Why stay your hand repeatedly? Someone needed to, and I was there.   
  
Did I have tender feelings towards you? Yes, but not romantic. As your professor, and earlier, the spy, I could not allow such sentiment.   
  
Child, I had no idea you harbored anything other than hate for me. I was not playing any game with any fond feelings you may have felt for me. I was unaware. Would I have behaved toward you any differently? We shall never know, I would hope so.  
  
Did I realize when you left today you would be leaving for good? That had been my hope. I had hoped you'd go out into the world, and make a wonderful life for yourself. I had never allowed myself to think of you in any other light than as a student, one who had extreme potential.   
  
Did I realize you'd be leaving me? I believe I just answered that, but in case you missed it… I never saw the love which you so generously have demonstrated in you letter. I have been so long removed from that emotion, I am loath to admit I do not know its countenance; so, no it did not occur to me you were leaving me. Rather that you were going to… going to your life.   
  
Now, perhaps the hardest of all. The issue of blame. Most certainly, I blame the Wizarding World, its burden on you belonged on several wizards, not one small boy.   
  
Blame you? To an extent. You should have asked for help. You say you loved me, why did you not confide in me? I could not read your face; as I have explained, love and I are strangers, I did not know it was there. If not me, why not the headmaster? He loves you as if you were his own.   
  
Blame your aunt and uncle? Without a shadow of a doubt. Their treatment of you was nothing short of criminal.   
  
Blame myself? Yes. I'll accept blame. Blame because I do not know love, and was too dumb to recognize it when faced with it. Would I have done differently? I don't know, I can only hope.  
  
Not as generous as everyone thought? You undervalue yourself, Foolish boy, and have much to learn about self-esteem. If you can give me a second chance, I'd like to help. It seems I need second chances for everything in life except potions.  
  
My use of "Foolish boy"? It is meant with the utmost tenderness. You have my respect, my attention, and my apologies. I resorted to sarcasm when I didn't understand your attentions to me were love. I mistook them as insolence, disrespect, and adolescent rebellion. As I said, I did not know the countenance of love. Maybe a little study on my part is needed. Of course, I'll need a teacher.   
  
Yes, I pushed you out the doors of the castle. I feared you'd miss your train. There was nothing personal. I just figured with all the people wishing you fare-the-well, you would stand there another hour, and wouldn't have another chance to get the train for a week. Another error in my judgment, and another five points from Slytherin.  
  
Love,   
  
SS  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
By the time Severus had finished his letter, Madam Pomfrey had healed Harry's arms. She impressed upon Severus to get a blood booster potion from his lab, and had administered it. Harry was waking up.  
  
"Professor? You're here?"  
  
"Foolish boy, where else would I be after receiving such a letter?" Severus' silky baritone voice soothed.  
  
"You weren't supposed to get the letter until tonight. How did you come by it so soon?"  
  
"Harry, you used a Hogwarts owl. They are trained to know dire need, and respond unlike a postal owl. It doesn't matter to them who is in trouble, if they see a need they do their best to summon help in the most timely fashion possible."  
  
"So..." Harry's voice became a whisper, "you read the letter?"  
  
"Of course. It was addressed to me. Did you not think I'd read it?"  
  
"No, I didn't… at least not for a day or two. I didn't think you'd think a letter so soon from an ex-student was important enough to warrant your time."  
  
"Foolish boy. It was from you. Of course I'd read it."  
  
"It was a long letter. How did you finish it in time to get to me?"  
  
"I'm not sure I should answer that question. I may need to use that skill again for you, and wouldn't want you to undermine it with prior knowledge." Severus said with a slight smile to both his mouth and voice.  
  
Harry frowned.  
  
"Harry, why did you do this? Was it get back at me for not seeing what you have so valiantly tried to show me for the last four years, according to your letter?  
  
"Some. But not all. I just couldn't take the pain any more. No one ever wanted to know me for who I was, and now I don't even know who I am, so how can I expect anyone to want to know me for that?" he asked I a rush of words. After catching his breath, he continued. "I did it because I don't believe I'll ever find love. Just love. I may find romantic love, I don't know, but I just wanted to be loved by someone who expected nothing more than to be loved in return. I had hoped I could find it with you, but you hate me."  
  
Severus winced at the last words. "Harry, foolish boy, I don't hate you. In fact I am grateful to you. You look surprised. Yes, grateful. Your letter opened my eyes. I have been blind, deaf, and stupid. Your letter acted as a reintroduction to emotions I had long ago laid to rest, feelings I had long ago buried. How can I hate a teacher who teaches better than I?"   
  
Harry slipped a hand out from under the covers and put it on Severus' hand. Severus had to fight not to pull away. He couldn't see why this eighteen-year-old would be interested in him. The only thing that made any sense to Severus was perhaps Harry was operating under a feeling of gratitude for being saved again, and was misreading his gratitude as love.  
  
"Severus, I know what you're thinking." Harry smiled a wicked little smile.   
  
Severus quirked an eyebrow, and responded, "Oh? One letter, and you know me so well, read me so thoroughly, to you? Do tell."  
  
"You don't understand how it is I could love you, right? You think I am misinterpreting my feelings, that they are something else, right? Sorry, love, you're wrong. I have felt these feelings too long not to recognize them for what they are. I love you. I have examined them from every angle. I have held them under a microscope to see if maybe they were just lustful adolescent hormones. It isn't. I love you. I tried being with other people, and do you know about whom I thought when I was with those other people? You, Severus, you, not them, you."  
  
Severus was thunderstruck. He didn't know what to say. Harry smiled. He didn't think he had ever seen Severus at a loss for words. Harry took this opportunity to give Severus another surprise. He snaked a hand behind Severus' head, twining his fingers through the man's hair, and pulled him down for a kiss.   
  
Severus tensed at the touch of the younger wizard's lips, but relaxed quickly when Harry pulled him into an embrace. Harry brushed his tongue across Severus' lips requesting entry and was granted it.   
  
Severus body vibrated with new sensations, and he responded enthusiastically. 


End file.
